


Of Dead Men and Magic

by feralgayanddumbassaoyama



Series: Two Miles of Earth [1]
Category: New X-Men: Academy X, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, can someone else do it im too sexy to read comics, does that make me like the pixieologist, due to having head empty syndrome, except i didnt read past the first three issues, genuinely think this is the longest pixie-centric fic ive seen..., im very proud of all the ways i figured out, mentor-mentee relationship, of how to refer to the fair folk, pixie strikes back aftermath, well. budding.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralgayanddumbassaoyama/pseuds/feralgayanddumbassaoyama
Summary: Faced with questions about the man who raised her, Pixie turns to Illyana Rasputin to answer them.Anole comes along for emotional support.
Relationships: Megan Gwynn & Victor Borkowski
Series: Two Miles of Earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009041
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	Of Dead Men and Magic

**Author's Note:**

> i think i blacked out and wrote this in a little over an hour and then when i typed it up today i was absolutely astounded to find it was nearly 2,000 words.

Pixie had no idea who her father was.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. She knew that Mastermind was the one who get her mom pregnant with her (ew), but.

But. He hadn’t _raised_ her. Peter Griffiths, Abergylid native, had raised her, and had died in the mines when she was just seven, and he was the one who taught her to always look on the bright side and keep her chin up and always always always look to the future, and now she had no idea if he had even been _real_.

“Megan,” Anole called. He always called her Megan, never Pixie. “Megan,” he said again, “I _really_ don’t think that this is a good idea.”

“I have to know,” Pixie said.

“Yeah, but, Magik-”

“Won’t hurt me?” Megan supplied. “Besides, I thought that was why you were here? To _protect_ me?”

Anole rolled his eyes and muttered more protests, but didn’t try to stop her again.

Pixie approached the metal door to the containment area without caution, opening the door without visible pause.

The room was lit by a series of bright fluorescent lights in the floor and ceiling, lighting up a single clear-walled cell in the centre of the room. Inside, a blonde woman sat criss-cross, head bent at a frankly disturbing (but not _entirely_ unnatural) angle, hair falling across her face.

“Hello, Ms. Rasputin,” she called out. “Or would you prefer if I called you Magik? I’m sorry, but it would just be really _weird_ if I called you Illyana.”

“Magik is fine, little Pixie,” the woman said, voice almost drowning in a thick Russian accent that Pixie was sure was at least _partially_ faked. Hadn’t Ruth said she left Russia when she was little, and never went back? No _way_ she had a more pronounced accent than freaking _Colossus_!

“You know, the accent is just overkill,” she commented, throwing herself onto the floor without so much as a by-your-leave. “Like, okay, I get it, you’re trying to scare me off for whatever reason, so you— what, sit like a possessed lady from some B-list horror movie, got that — but that’s one of the fakest Russian accents I’ve ever heard in my life. And, like, even if it’d been a _good_ fake, my best friend,” she gestured to Anole, “is Polish, so, uh, nice try.”

Magik straightened her neck and relaxed some of her muscles. “You are very perceptive, little Pixie. That shall serve you well, I think.”

Her voice now was — odd. It was still accented, but not in any way that Pixie knew how to describe, voice quiet yet filling the entire room, a harshness in it like she’d spent her whole life screaming and this was her first time trying to whisper.

Magik must have caught her look, because she addressed her directly. “The language of demons is a harsh one, and not meant for human tongues. People...expect the Russian more, even if they know it is fake.”

“I didn’t think you’d care what people think,” Anole snarked.

“Some things I prefer not to share with those who would not understand, or would not try to understand, or do not care to,” Magik said.

“Oh yeah? Like how you’re a monster?” he asked.

“ _Anole!_ ” Pixie snapped. “Stop it. Magik hurt me as a means to an end, which isn’t okay, and I haven’t forgiven her for it or forgotten it happened, but she got what she wanted! She won’t do it again.”

Anole glowered at her some more, then turned to Magik, and then melted into the shadows in a way that let Pixie know he was using his camouflage.

“So,” Magik said, “I presume this is not a social call?”

“No,” Pixie said in her best attempt at sombreirty. “It isn’t.”

“Well, if it’s knowledge you seek, ask me anything you may, and I shall answer, and answer as well I can.”

“Is there a question limit,” Anole asked flatly, re-appearing at Pixie’s seven-o’clock. She glared at him, and he threw up his hands. “What?” he demanded. “I’ve heard stories, alright? About magic, and deals, and—stuff, and how important words are, and — I don’t know, Meg, that wording _sounded_ specific but also left a loophole for Magik to shut you down after one question, and you _know_ that would be just awful so if she means to do that shouldn’t you at least know going into it?”

Magik laughed, loud and clear and a little bit scary. “Some council, free of charge,” she said, “keep this friend. He will serve you well.” She sighed deeply. “But yes, he is correct. My wording was imprecise, and that could be disastrous, given your… fairer nature.”

“Any questions, no limit, during this meeting. Henceforth, it must be about magic or the craft. No additional time limits. The bargain is fulfilled when one of us dies. Permanently.”

Pixie blinked at her dumbly until her brain connected the words “fairer” with “fae”. Then she narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Wait. What do _you_ get out of this? Sorry, but you just don’t strike me as a ‘joy of teaching’ type?”

Magik raised an eyebrow. “ _Dearest_ Pixie,” she drawled, “you gave me a piece of your _soul_. You’ve gotten it back, of course, but a soul is a powerful thing — one of the Peoples’ even more so. Frankly, I’m cheating you.”

Pixie flushed. “Oh,” she said, staring at the ground. “Right.”

Magik’s expression smoothed over. “It was a good question,” she said in a tone that might have been consoling. “In any other situation, it would have been smart. _Always_ question the other party’s motives, what they gain. It just so happens I’ve already cashed in on my end of the deal.”

Pixie took in a deep breath. Cleared her throat. “Alright, then. I want to know about my father.”

Quicker than she could blink, Magik was standing up and had both hands against the clear wall of her cell. “No,” she snapped. “ _No_ , absolutely not, you cannot be thinking of — not so soon? After what you’ve just seen? Necromancy _never_ works, little Pixie, don’t even think about it.”

Pixie scrambled to her feet, appalled. “No!” she exclaimed. “No, no, I would — I would _never_! I just — I just want to know what he was. The man who raised me. Not Mastermind.”

Magik heaved a sigh of relief. “Alright. Explain,” she ordered.

“Well, I, um,” Pixie said, fumbling her words. “Mastermind is my dad, but, like, not really? Like, he, uh, got my mom pregnant and all… but he didn’t raise me! Peter, Peter Griffiths did, and he died when I was seven and there’s all these little details that can’t be _possible_ if he wasn’t my actual dad, like, like, I got my nose from him, and, I just — I just need to know if he was _real_ , yeah?” Pixie was crying, now, and usually she would be at least a little embarrassed, but she couldn’t muster up the feeling right now.

Magik nodded along. “Okay. This is probably an uncomfortable question, but: You’re _sure_ your mother didn’t just cheat on him?”

Megan shook her head violently. “I’m sure,” she said, wiping away tears. “Growing up, everyone always said that Mum and Dad had lived in Abergylid their whole lives, b-but after, Mum said she met Mastermind in England, when she was living there after college, a few years after she graduated, and moved back to Abergylid when she knew she was gonna have me, but before that… Everyone always said that when Mum got pregnant with me, it was the talk of the town for near the whole nine months, up until I was two or three, ‘cause she always refused to marry Dad, and even gave me her name and everything…”

“Mhm,” Magik said. “Your town — did it keep paper or digital files when you were born?”

“P-paper, probably, why?”

“And your father, this Peter Griffiths — how did he die?”

“C-coal mine collapse,” Pixie said, starting a more subdued round of tears.

“And was there ever any body recovered?” Magik asked, more gentle this time, for a measure of gentle.

Wordlessly, Pixie shook her head _no_.

Magik sat in thought for a long time. “Pixie,” she said, “I’m sorry. There’s no way to be sure, unless you want to ask your mother, but I believe your father was a construct.”

Pixie fell to her knees and _sobbed_ . “That’s not possible!” she cried, “H-he had parents, friends, cla-assm-mates, I’ve _met_ the-e-em, t-there’s pictures of him! He was two years older than my mum!”

“A well crafted enough illusion, if it touches enough people, is functionally indistinct from a localized reality warp,” Magik said, as if trying to deliver some half-forgotten quoted wisdom.

“So?” Pixie retorted. “It’s still fake, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely,” Magik said quietly. “In the same vein, a well-crafted enough construct is indistinguishable from the average person.”

Magik knelt down, speaking quietly enough that only Pixie could hear. “From the sound of it, your mother is a _very_ skilled craftswoman indeed. It’s probably why Mastermind took a liking to her. To have fooled an entire town into thinking that Peter Griffiths was just the same as him, even going the extra step of making him a _local_ , of re-writing so much of her life and making it _believable_. To the townspeople of Abergylid, he grew up with them and died with them and was buried with them and was mourned by them. Eventually, in perhaps a century or so, he will be forgotten by them, but after no more or less time than any other man. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Pixie took a deep, shuddery breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay,” she repeated, louder. Under her jacket, her wings fluttered. 

“Thank you,” she said, giving a jerky nod to Magik, turning and heading out the door.

Anole caught up to her, and gently touched her elbow. “Hey,” he said, “you okay?”

“I will be,” Pixie said, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, causing Anole to wrinkle his face in disgust.

“Did you get the answers you were looking for?” he asked.

“No,” Pixie said honestly, “but I found the ones I needed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I literally had to google "euphemisms for the fair folk" when I was typing this up, because you're not supposed to actually call them the Fae, because it pisses them off, and Illyana would know that.
> 
> I think the start was a little weak but idk, I've sorta been playing around with style recently but not so much on (relatively) longer works like this one, so drop a comment and tell me what you think!
> 
> This was my first time writing for Illyana and Anole, so I'm sorry if they seemed ooc. I was trying to combine Illyana's character from the original New Mutants run with how she's portrayed now, and I'm not sure if I'm totally in love with the result.
> 
> There's a line in there that sort of references some of Pixie's feelings on names, and how she doesn't like to be called Megan, which is an allusion to something else I've written but am on the bridge on posting.


End file.
